


Starry Night

by yikeswtfmate



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, F/M, Mild Language, Slow Burn, clownery & dumbassery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27922813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yikeswtfmate/pseuds/yikeswtfmate
Summary: A painting is stolen from the Met and Captain Steve Rogers is assigned to catch the burglar. An exhausted, heavily caffeinated and too chaotic for her own good English professor comes to his rescue, but there's something about her that makes Captain Rogers more interested in her Christmas themed personality, than art history.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Starry Night

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I have no idea how ranks work in the US police system, but at this point I am way too lazy to look it up. And I have no idea what I'm talking about when it comes to art, I just love Van Gogh's paintings so I took the idea and ran with it. Enjoy this clownery!

Steve looks over his shoulder when he hears his name called out. Chief Rhodey is standing in the doorway of his office, arms crossed and a furious glare on his face - but then again, that should be expected, considering Bucky is also strutting over. Steve stands up with a sigh. If they’re going to get a new case, he really hopes it’s not something that would make his best friend trigger happy - the last guy who tried running away got a bullet in his ass, even though he might have deserved it. 

“Burglary.” Rhodey says, throwing a file on his desk, as he takes his seat. “A painting was stolen from the Met last night.”

“Oh, come on!” Bucky shouts. “Give the boring ones to Wilson for once.”

Chief Rhodey shoots a pointed stare towards him, effectively making him lean back into his chair, only grumbling under his breath like a petulant child. Steve takes the file, rifling through it - it’s filled with pictures of the painting, the museum, fingerprints and too many words to digest without an ounce of caffeine into his body. But he recognises the style, the man in the painting. This is a big one, even though Bucky will definitely continue to bitch about it in the car later.

“Van Gogh’s self-portrait, Barnes, is not boring and definitely not cheap.  _ That, _ ” Rhodey continues, pointing to the photo Steve’s taken out. “Is worth $150 million.”

“What the shit.” Bucky replies, stunned for a change. 

He snatches the photo from Steve, staring at it intently, bringing it closer to his face, then further, as if it would start spitting gold if held in a certain position. He looks back up at Rhodey, who just rolls his eyes.

“I don’t get it.” 

“And luckily for you, you don’t have to. Rogers here will explain whatever you’d like on style, colours and all that shit, I’m sure, but you only need to bother yourself with catching the thief or I’ll have my ass handed over by Tony.”

“What does the Mayor have to do with this?” Steve asks, still trying to find a clue in the file.

“Apparently this painting was supposed to be the centerpiece for one of his fundraisers, and now it’s gone. So, of course, he’s been stomping his foot and pouting for the past couple of hours.”

“Do we get to be invited to the party if we find the painting in time?” Bucky grins, already thinking of the extravagant events that no one in the state of New York can compete with.

“You get to keep your face from getting a black eye from me, Barnes. Now go do your jobs.”

Both men stand up, ready to get on this case. For once, Steve is excited, even though he hasn’t the faintest idea yet on how to start broaching this case, but mainly because he gets to go to the Met today, and during working hours nonetheless. 

“Do the people at the museum know we’re coming over?”

“Oh, you’re not going to the museum, Rogers.” Rhodey smiles and honestly, that might look more menacing than any threat could sound. “You’re going to visit a friend of mine first.”

*

Bucky keeps fiddling with the radio until Steve slaps his hand away. He’s been in a foul mood ever since they’ve left the precinct and it might have something to do with a certain redheaded medical examiner who’s turned down his offer for a date yet again. He grumbles a ‘fuck you, Steve’ but does nothing more than to lean his head on the headrest and cross his arms. A few minutes pass in silence, and Steve is thankful for it - he’s just realised that there’s something about this case that seems oddly familiar.

“Who do you think this friend of Rhodey’s is?” Bucky pipes up, cutting Steve’s train of thought.

“I’m surprised he even  _ has  _ friends beside Stark, to be fair.” Steve shrugs.

“Do you think she’s hot?” 

“Bucky, don’t start.” Steve warns. “Didn’t you say - wait, let me remember your exact words, hold on. ‘Stevie, I am in  _ love _ ! No one will ever compare to Natasha ever! No woman is worthy next to her beauty and intelligence!’ and some other cheesy shit along those lines.”

“Well, they aren’t.” Bucky shrugs, as if it’s common knowledge, like the sky is blue. “But,  _ you _ , my big dumb friend, need a lady in your life. You’ve been single for too long.” 

“I’m really going to have to ask you to stop. I’m not getting into this conversation with you at 9 am, and definitely not sober. Besides, we’re already here.” He announces, parking the car in front of a row of brownstones that are heavily decorated for Christmas. 

“Can you at least get her number if she’s hot though?” Bucky goes on, as he closes the car door.

“No.” Steve grunts, analysing the building in front of him. “Have you even considered that given that she’s Rhodey’s friend she might be either 50 or married? Or both?”

“What if she’s 20, single and hot? Will you get her number then?” 

Steve just shoots him a look, as he presses the button to her apartment. There’s no time for either of them to retaliate in any way, when a voice trills through the comm. 

“If this is Rhodey: fuck you, I’m awake, goddammit. If this is my mum: I’m sorry, but Rhodey can suck my dick,” 

Bucky bursts out laughing and Steve doesn’t know if he should join him or continue on staring perplexed at the piece of metal in front of him. He presses the button to speak, clears his throat.

“Er, no. This is Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes. Chief Rhodey asked us to speak with you about a case?” It’s not his fault that last part sounded more like a question, and not an affirmation. This woman has taken him completely by surprise, he still doesn’t know how to react, even though Bucky is still guffawing behind him.

“Knowing that dickhead, he didn’t ask you shit. More like he demanded it like a Soviet leader.” Steve can practically hear her roll her eyes, but before he can say anything the door buzzes open. “Second floor, it’s the red door. Follow the smell of coffee and exhaustion. And do not even dare judge my PJs when you get here.”

“I already like her.” Bucky snickers as he passes Steve to get to the door.

They walk up the stairs in silence, but Bucky is still sporting an obnoxious grin. There is indeed a red door on the second floor, just as decorated for Christmas as the entrance steps. There’s fake snow spray painted on it, a wreath hanging just below the peephole, and Steve thinks there are too many candy canes where they shouldn’t be. He knocks on the door, waits for a few seconds, raises his fist to knock again, before it opens with a whoosh. 

In front of them, there’s this woman that is nothing like any of them has imagined. Bucky thinks she looks crazy, even if maybe in an adorable way, if you’re the kind of guy who’s into girls wearing PJs with Santa sticking his butt out of his pants and what must be yesterday’s eyeliner. Steve, on the other hand, has to take a steadying breath in, because the smell of gingerbread and coffee nearly makes him cry with hunger. She’s grimacing, as she takes in their badges hanging from their necks, rolls her eyes again and goes back into the apartment. 

The men look at each other, confused, before a shouted ‘get in, you weirdos, it’s cold out there’ can be heard. They step in and there are more Christmas decorations and a tree that is probably too big for the small space right next to the windows. Steve could see it from the street, but he thought this must be the apartment of someone who has at least five kids running about. No kids in sight, and considering this woman’s blatant disregard about anyone around her and her obvious young age, there’s no way any toddlers are hiding behind the purple couch. 

“Take your shoes off, I just vacuumed yesterday.” She says from the kitchen island, where she’s pouring coffee into two mugs. 

They do as instructed, lining their shoes neatly against the wall, but Steve doesn’t miss the amused shake of Bucky’s head. He  _ likes  _ this girl, he can tell by the glint in his eyes - there’s nothing like a spitfire of a woman to peak his interest, as evidenced by the man’s complete and utter devotion to Nat who only communicates with him in sarcastic sneers and rolls of her eyes. But there’s also something that bothers Steve about that. He suddenly feels inexplicably very protective over this woman who’s now pushing a mug towards him - it’s chipped and bears the face of a winking snowman on it.

Steve and Bucky sit on the couch at a flourish of her hand, while she takes her place cross-legged in an armchair overfilled with blankets. Steve notices her toenails are painted fluorescent pink and he takes a sip of his coffee to hide a half smile. The coffee is divine and he nearly misses her next question.

“So, where’s the third musketeer then?”

Another confused look shared by the two men, another roll of her eyes. She shakes her hand dismissively, as if bored by their slow thinking process.

“Captain Steve Rogers and Sergeant James ‘Bucky’ Barnes.” She says slowly, as if talking to babies. “Where’s Captain Sam Wilson?”

“You know who we are?” Bucky asks, bewilderment written all over his face.

“Do you really think I don’t have to listen to Rhodey blab on what stupid shit you’ve done lately on a regular basis? That man won’t shut up about your flirting with potential suspects,” She explains, pointing to Bucky, and then turning her finger to Steve. “Or your complete disregard of safety. Or Sam’s bad jokes at the most inappropriate of times.” 

“Now that’s just slander.” Bucky grunts, although he’s smirking.

“No, I think she pretty much has us figured out to a T.” Steve murmurs, to which she grins happily. There’s something about that wicked smile that makes Steve want to praise her more, admit she’s right whatever might come out of her mouth - weird. “He’s working another case at the moment.”

“Sad. I always thought he seems the most fun.” She shrugs, doesn’t give them the time to jump up in outrage like Bucky would normally do. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N, but I’m going to go ahead and assume you already know that, considering Rhodey sent you here at this godawful hour. Now, gentlemen, how may I help you?”

“A painting was stolen from the Met last night. The chief said you might be able to help us with some clues.” 

“What painting?” Y/N asks, placing her mug on the low coffee table, right on top of a magazine on what looks like The Lord of the Rings. 

Bucky turns to Steve, waiting for his reply, because there is no way in hell he can even remember the name of that dude, nevermind the painting.

“Van Gogh’s  _ Self Portrait with a Straw Ha _ t.” He supplies, dutifully.

“You mean  _ The Potato Peeler _ ’s obverse? Spectacular awareness of Neo-Impressionism, although I’m sure the thief must’ve been more interested in its $150 million worth.” She whistles, obviously impressed, whether by the painting or the price, Steve can’t tell. He is, however, more impressed by her ready knowledge of the painting  _ and  _ its painting technique. 

“Did you do a course in Art History or something?” Bucky laughs. “How come you know that stuff?”

“Nope.” She says, popping the word and there’s that wicked grin again. “I have a PhD is something that my father considers just as useless - English.” 

Y/N stands up then, goes to the vast collection of books that lines two of the walls, ignoring all the piles of books scattered throughout the room. She scans two of the shelves, finger gliding over the spines, as Steve follows her every move. There’s a languid quality to her motions, the way she seems to savour just the experience of touching the books - he likes that. He’s been surrounded by too many people who only know how to rush lately. 

Bucky elbows him in the ribs, nearly making him spill the coffee on his shirt. He jerks his head towards his best friend, who’s smirking like the little asshole that he is.

“You gonna get her number or what?”

“I swear to  _ fuck _ , Bucky -” 

“Dude, you looked like you creamed your pants when she started talking about Van Gogh. Not to mention, you look like you’re eating her up right now and she’s wearing weird Christmas PJs!”

“What did I say about judging my PJs?” She pipes up, cutting their conversation short once again. This woman apparently has the best or worst timing in the history of humankind.

Steve is not sure which one of them two is redder right now - either him for being embarrassed by Bucky like that, or Bucky for being caught. She doesn’t seem to mind, however, because she looks completely unfazed as she takes back her place, an oversized hardcover in her lap.

“Have you two ever heard of  _ Wheat Field with Cypresses _ ?” She asks, rifling through the pages. 

Their muddled frowns are answer enough, so she places the book in front of them. It’s opened to a print of the painting depicting blue skies, golden wheat fields and a towering cypress to the side. Her finger taps the page once (glittery green nails with small Santa hats on them).

“It’s one of three similar 1889 oil paintings by Van Gogh as part of his wheat field series. They were all painted at the mental asylum at Saint-Rémy in France, where he was voluntarily a patient for a year.” She mutters wistfully, still not meeting their eyes. “The works were inspired by the view from his window at the asylum.” 

She leans back into her armchair, leaving Steve time to read through the information on painting technique and colour on the page. Bucky is impatient though, he’s practically vibrating next to him, so there is no wonder he just ignores the book entirely and gets to the point.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“ _ Wheat Field with Cypresses  _ was sold to the Met in 1993 for $57 million.” Y/N sighs, just as impatient. “It was stolen one year later before it reappeared on the black market two years ago.”

That is when Steve realises why this case sounded so familiar - he’s heard something about  _ Wheat Field _ two years ago, when it caused a ruckus in the art community. Stark was livid when Clint found it, and the museum had to do a lot of damage control when the news broke out.

“Do you think it’s related to this case?” Steve asks.

“I’m not sure.” Y/N shrugs, not at all reassuringly. “They never found the thief after all.”

“But why would Rhodey ask us to talk to you in the first place if you don’t know?” And there goes Bucky again with the straight to the point questions.

“Well,” Y/N says with a pensive smile, turning her face towards the window. “It might have to do with the fact that I was the one who picked up  _ Wheat Field _ ’s trail the last time.”

*

Three hours later, Steve stands up to stretch his legs. The coffee table is now littered with mugs, plates full of crumbs stacked on top of each other, Christmas themed napkins, piles of open books and about a million pages strewn across every available surface. Bucky has gone to the museum about two hours ago, leaving Steve and Y/N pour over details of the last theft, trying to find a link between the two burglaries. There aren’t too many clues, to both their dismay, but Y/N has proven to be a treasure full of information in not only art, but crime as well. If he wouldn’t know that Rhodey fully trusts her, Steve would suspect her of having done away with murder at some point in her life. 

She’s laying on the floor at the moment, an art history magazine on her face, fingers linked right over Santa’s head. Steve can’t help but notice there’s a sliver of skin exposed, right above the waistline of her bottoms - smooth and sweet, and he catches himself licking his lips.  _ What the fuck is wrong with you, man? You’re working a case here.  _ And  _ you’ve just met her.  _

“I think I need another coffee.” Her voice is muffled, but Steve can hear her crystal clear. 

He sits on the floor as well, back against the couch and he nudges his foot with hers. “You’ve had three already. Drink some water.”

“Oh God, you sound just like Rhodey. Please don’t ever put that image in my head. You’re too pretty for that.” She mutters, standing up. 

She flings the magazine to the side, looks up at Steve again. He’s sitting motionless, bewildered. He doesn’t know how to react, because even though he’s caught the fact that she’s too blunt for her own good early on, he didn’t expect  _ that  _ \- just like he didn’t expect anything that’s happened today. Y/N just smirks, nudges back his foot. 

“You’re even cuter when you blush.” She laughs. “Come on, we’re going out.”

“Out?” Steve stammers as he watches her stand up and head to a closed door that must be her bedroom.

“Yep. We’re going to get some books, pretty boy!”

*

The moment Steve steps into the heated bookstore, he says a little ‘thank God’ under his breath. He completely forgot Bucky took the car when he left, and Y/N’s blatant refusal to take a cab only left them with the option to walk. She kept promising the old bookstore is close, and something about ‘the fresh air giving her a new perspective’, but after ten minutes of December weather in only a leather jacket made him miss the comfort of her living room embarrassingly much. 

Now, he’s left standing next to the door, as Y/N has already disappeared behind a high shelf, a pep in her step and a hum on her lips. He can only see part of her face behind the books, enough to give him a glimpse of her ease and happiness in what must be her element. 

“Y/N, I thought I told you not to come here anymore until you finish your last book haul.” The man behind the counter grunts, yet there’s an obvious fond edge to his voice.

“It’d be easier for us both if you’d just let me do whatever I want, Bruce!” She shouts as she disappears again from view. 

“The day you’re allowed to do whatever you want, Y/N, is the day the world would burn up in flames.” Bruce replies with a shake of his head. “Or there would be no more people, just books.”

“And wouldn’t that be a glorious world?” 

Y/N pops up from a shelf that is on the entirely opposite side of the bookstore. How she managed that, Steve can only guess, but he’s too invested in this conversation that she’s having with this man, to try sort that out. He gathered that this is probably her favourite bookstore that she frequents regularly, but he is uncertain about the relationship between Y/N and this Bruce. He seems just a tad too old for her, and he really hopes to God there’s nothing going on between them, because, well, he doesn’t want anyone to have anything going on with Y/N at this point.

“You’re just being fuddy-duddy today because I haven’t brought you gingerbread.” She snickers, placing another gigantic hardcover on the counter. “This is Stevie, by the way. Say hi, don’t be rude.”

Bruce looks up and seems to be surprised at the sight of another person in his shop. He adjusts his glasses, shifts from one foot to the other and smiles shyly. Steve can tell only by that that Y/N has him wrapped around her finger - her chaotic, vibrant finger. He would also not like to ponder too much on the fact that she just called him Stevie.

“Steve, this is Mr. Grumpy. He likes to rain on my sunshine filled parades.” 

“Your parades are full of dumb ideas and fuelled by too much caffeine for your own good.” He grunts again before raising his hand to shake Steve’s. “I’m Bruce Banner. It’s nice to meet you. Please don’t give her coffee.”

“Joke’s on you, I already had three today.” She grumbles.

“Pleased to meet you.” Steve interjects, side stepping until he’s towering behind Y/N, although she doesn’t even notice, as she fishes around in her bag. He finds he actually likes this height difference. “How do you know Y/N?”

He doesn’t mean to ask that, he really doesn’t, and it’s definitely not his fault his question sounds more like a thinly veiled menacing inquiry. Bruce smiles then - at him, not at Y/N, mind you. Steve really hopes he hasn’t picked up on his sudden protectiveness, because really, he himself doesn’t know where  _ that  _ came from.

“She’s the pesky little gremlin who likes to pop up here every few days in search of treasure. Unfortunately, she wore me down and we became friends.”

“What he means to say,” Y/N pipes up, handing him a bunch of bills that seems too fat for just one book, but what does Steve know about how much that monstrosity of a book might cost? “Is that he couldn’t resist my amazing personality and great baking skills.”

“I’ll give you great baking skills.” Bruce concedes.

_ I’d admit amazing personality as well,  _ Steve thinks. 

Ten minutes later, they’re back in the cold outside and Steve would dread the way back more if it weren’t for Y/N hanging onto his arm, begging him to let her hold the book. She’s wearing a pair of red mittens, but he can still feel her fingers pressing into his flesh.

“I’m not some damsel in distress, let me hold the damn book!” She shouts once more.

“Y/N, this thing weighs about a ton. Just shut up and let’s get home before we both freeze to death.”

“You’re bossy.” She grumbles, stuffing her hands in her pockets, but she’s still much closer to him now than she was on the way over. “But don’t ever tell me to shut up again or I will punch you in the throat.”

“Shut up, Y/N.” Steve laughs, to which she just huffs in shock, but she doesn’t make any motion to punch him - all bark and no talk. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” 

They walk in silence for a few more minutes, before Y/N speaks up again.

“You should get back to the precinct though. I don’t have anything else I can help you with for now, but maybe Bucky’s found something at the museum.”

Steve doesn’t want to acknowledge the tinge of disappointment he feels at the prospect of leaving. He really doesn’t want to think about what that could mean or how he’d very much prefer to get back to her cozy apartment and just watch her read for the rest of the day. He only notices she’s stopped walking when he’s already a few steps in front of her. He turns back, watches her frown and grimace in thought for a few seconds, before she looks back up at him with her typical grin.

“I’ll call you when I have something for you.” She says, extending her hands to grab the book. He lets her this time, not just a little downcast at her resolve to send him away. “It was great finally meeting you though. I  _ did  _ think you’d be much cuter than Rhodey led me to believe and I was right once again.”

And with that she starts crossing the street in another direction that is definitely not her apartment. Steve is yet again too befuddled to answer for a few seconds, but he doesn’t feel it’s any of his business where she might be going to to ask.

“I don’t have your number!” He shouts after her - truly a spectacular answer.

“Check your phone again!” She shouts in reply, and he’s sure she’s giggling as she twirls in a circle, right in the middle of the street.

Steve takes out his phone, sees an unread message from an unknown number that must’ve come through when they were still in the bookstore. He smiles down at the words, but when he looks back up she’s nowhere to be seen.

**_You’re cute when you’re jealous, pretty boy._ **


End file.
